


yandere prompts. (seedling edition)

by sekirosushi



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Desperate John, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Grinding, Love, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive John, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Smut, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-02 04:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekirosushi/pseuds/sekirosushi
Summary: Just a collection of one-shots featuring the Seedlings being possessive, obsessive with their darling deputy.





	1. "It's okay to love me... Please love me." (John)

The desperation in his words is what guts you, what makes your muscles freeze and your heart clench.

“I do… I do love you, John.”

He closes the gap between you, kissing you quick and hard, as if to trap the words in the air between you so you couldn’t take them back.

“Then stay,” he gasps against your lips, nudging them open with a persistent, skilled tongue.

“Baby Blue, you know I can’t—“

He shoves you down, forcing you back against the bed, hovering above you with a cloudy look of want, anger and despair - the three emotions so vastly different but so very tangible in his eyes.

“Yes. You can. You just don’t want to. You don’t want me. You’d rather go out there, put your life at risk every single fucking day, than stay with me.”

“John, I’m trying to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”

“Fuck everyone else!”

This was bad. This was very, very bad. A manic John was a dangerous John — not to you, necessarily, but to anyone who’s unlucky enough to cross his path or come to mind in his angered frenzy.

“What happened to saving them, John? What about helping them reach their atonement? What about walking to the Gates of Eden?”

You feel like you’re disarming a bomb — calm, careful, calculating. You don’t believe a word of what you’re saying, you don’t condone the fucking confessions or baptisms, but when you compare them to the homicidal intent burning in his eyes, you’d take the formers any day of the week.

“I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. They can all burn. You’re the only thing that matters. I love you.”

He grinds against you, pulling a moan from your throat and a snarl from his chest, as he works at your clothes with dexterous fingers, black ink adorning pale flesh, as he kisses you like he needs it more than air, all bruised lips and biting canines and merciless tongue.

“Jo—“

He isn’t hearing any of it, crushing your mouths together over and over until your lips go numb, until his taste is so thoroughly ingrained on your palate that you’ll never lose it, until your blood is boiling, torn between where to rush to.

Stay in your head, where logic is telling you to get the fuck out and run as fast as you can,

Pump through your heart, where the compassion you thought had died out years ago is telling you to cradle him close and never let him go, to block his ears from the bitter noise, to cover his eyes from the horrors outside his door (even though 25% of it was his responsibility, his consequence, his fault), to kiss him until he’s forgotten about everything wrong in his life and show him that there’s plenty of right.

Rush between your legs, where lust is telling you to switch your positions and ride him into the mattress, to hear him whine and plead for you, to make him scream that fucking word - “Yes, yes, yes!” - until his throat was hoarse, raw, wrecked.

The decision is taken out of your hands when John pulls away, trailing kisses down your neck, your chest, your navel.

“I’ll prove to you… Prove that I’m worthy of your love… That I’m the only one who deserves it… That you don’t need anyone but me.”

•

Fuck, if he isn’t good with his mouth.


	2. "The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh." + "I hate it when they look at you... So fucking much." (John)

“What?” John has never looked more aghast - and that’s including the numerous times he’s caught Sharky snuggling you like his personal teddy bear or Nick ruffling your hair after a fantastic day of soaring through the skies or May pressing grateful kisses to your cheeks, nose, jaw whenever you helped out around Fall’s End. 

“You heard me, John.“

He whines - honest to God, whines - as if you’re threatening to withhold food, water, air.

That, and the fact that you never call him John. 

That’s when he knows you’re being serious. 

“That’s not fair.”

You shrug, rising from the sofa, plucking your keys off the side-table. “Don’t know anyone who said life was fair—“

He’s climbing into your lap before you can finish the sentence, arms wound tightly around your shoulders, as if he’s petrified that you’d throw him off.

You hum, calmly place the keys back down, settle your hands on his hips, squeezing appreciatively.

His cock is so hard that when it touches your leg, both of you fully-clothed, the contact alone is enough to have him gasping, shuddering at the friction as you get yourself comfortable, your thigh digging a little deeper into his groin before you stop moving altogether, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

“Well, Pretty Boy? What are you going to do? Tell me what you want for Christmas?”

The glare he levels at you would’ve been intimidating had his eyes not been clouded with blatant want, lust, need.

“I hate you.” 

“Join the club, sweetheart,” you murmur, without missing a beat. 

A muscle in his jaw twitches, but that won’t do. He had no right to be angry. You take his chin between your fingers, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching the digits deliciously, and angle his face to meet yours. 

He can’t look at you. 

Scratch that, he won’t look you. 

You withhold a sigh, because you really weren’t in the mood to deal with his petulance today. 

So, you do what’s necessary - you tighten your quad, drag it hard against the straining tent in his jeans, watch as he chokes for breath that‘s stolen from his lungs.

Those beautiful baby blues snap down to you, teeth biting down so hard on his bottom lip that it threatens to break the skin, but that wasn’t right - John made the loveliest noises, stifling them is a sin against humanity and there’s not much room left on his skin for any more tattoos - so you tenderly pry it out of his mouth with your thumb and forefinger, brushing over the indents left behind by teeth sweetly, taking note of the sweat beading at his temple and the stutter of his breathing. 

That perfect Cupid’s bow is parted now, labored breaths rushing to his thrashing lungs, the black of his pupils swallowing gorgeous sapphires whole beneath hooded lids, flitting lashes, pinched brows. 

It takes an exorbitant amount of self-restraint not to kiss him until you both forget why you were doing this in the first place. 

But if you don’t punish the dog for lashing out, one day, someone’ll get mauled. 

“You acted like a brat today, John. Care to explain why?”

•

He can’t form words. 

For one, the blood in his body is torn between rushing to his cock or flushing his cheeks, because he had no idea that something as juvenile as dry-humping (which is what this is) could get him this hard, leave him such a dizzy, pathetic mess braced against your thigh.

For two, embarrassment coursed through him in such unpleasant waves that it leaves him tongue-tied, unable to think of anything that didn’t make him sound like a petty child for his earlier behavior. 

For three, you began to randomly tense your thigh, move it just so that John began to chase after it blindly, rock against you like it was all he knows how to do, and the movement was enough to make him salivate, to grind down for more, more, m o r e .

Until you stop completely, hold his hips still with sharp fingers digging into his jeans, enough to hurt, enough to bruise, adding yet another delicious layer to this punishment, eliciting a broken whimper from his throat.

“Answer me, John.”

“I was jealous!” He shouts.

The silence that settles in the following seconds nearly drains the moment of its intimacy, before you lightly squeeze his waist, slowly and thoroughly moving your leg against him. 

“Jealous of what?”

A laugh spills out of him - sharp and unbidden, though in this state, it sounds jagged and fractured, scraping his vocal cords until they’d been rubbed raw. 

“You really don’t know, do you?”

You brush back the dark strands of hair that’ve fallen out of place, cupping his cheek tenderly. 

“Explain it to me, baby.”

His body trembles, and, with a heavy heart, you think he’s about to burst into tears. 

But when he speaks, you realize that he’s shaking with rage, venom dripping from his lips, painting his teeth, staining his tongue. 

“I hate it when they look at you… So fucking much. Those fucking companions of yours are cancerous. When they touch you, I want to carve their sins - lust, gluttony, greed - into their skin, over and over and over, until they can’t deny their mistake.”

“What mistake was that?”

“Trying to steal you from me. They don’t deserve a chance to atone, to confess, to be cleansed. They don’t deserve you.“

“John…” 

Your thumb traces his plump bottom lip, and he takes the digit between his lips, sucking in earnest, holding your palm against his cheek, like he doesn’t want you to ever let go, like he’ll never let you let go. 

“They’re just friends, sweetheart. You know that. They’ve helped me out more times than I can count and I’ve come to care about them very much - but it’s strictly platonic, baby. That’s all it ever will be,” you explain softly, just a touch of breathless as his tongue laves over your thumb, as you pop it out of his mouth before he can get too excited, stifling a smile at he huffs, indignant and frustrated. 

“They want to be more. So much more. You don’t see it, but they want you in their homes, in their beds, underneath them.”

“Even if they did — which they don’t — does it matter?”

Anger, hot and fierce and blinding, grabs hold of him, blue eyes turning stormy, threatening to decimate anything in their path, a growl bubbling in his throat. 

“What kind of question—“

You tense your thigh and grind it against his cock, feel it throb at the sensation, a surprised cry breaking his concentration, his mind short-circuiting, shutting down at the delicious friction before rebooting and focusing on that, that — he needs more of that.

“John, whose house am I in right now?”

The anger fades.

“Who am I underneath right now?”

The heat simmers.

Your voice drops, so low and dulcet that he shivers, swallows, groans. 

“Who’s getting off on me right now?” 

The ferocity gives way to pure, unadulterated lust as you move with him, until he’s gasping for air, clutching at your shoulders for some sort of anchor in this storm of carnal pleasure. 

He’s close - liquid heat is pooling at the base of his spine, his stomach clenching at the pleasure below his navel, where the sin you ignite in him - his flesh, his bones, his marrow - burns, devastating and euphoric.

He just needs a little more, greed snatching him by the collar and snarling for it, as he grinds down hard against you, moaning and whining because he’s close, he’s so close, he can taste it—

“You‘re the one I want. You‘re the one I come home to. You’re the one I belong to.” 

It’s these words that send him tumbling over the edge, with a shattered cry and shaking limbs, clinging to you like you’d disappear the second he put as much of a fraction of an inch between you.

•

Takes a few seconds for John to come back to his senses - he’d actually blacked-out from the intensity of his release, but it’s not like anyone needs to know that.

When he lifts his head, he finds you smiling at him, something so warm and honest and pure that he feels the telltale prick of tears behind his eyes.

Because nobody’s ever looked at him like that. 

Like he‘s actually worth something, worth more than anything in this world.

Like he’s something beautiful, a treasure to be brandished and cherished.

Like he’s not a sadistic bastard who’s obsessed with confessions and baptisms, but a broken boy from Georgia who’d forgotten how to feel and does anything, everything, he can to try and remember. 

This… 

This was more than lust. 

This was… 

•

Your fingers trace the hard line of his jaw as you peer into those hypnotizing pools of cobalt you’d be all-too-happy to drown in. 

When the blood’s stopped rushing through his ears so he can hear you clearly and the haze has lifted from his eyes so he can see you’re being sincere, you say three little words that make his heart stop. 

“I love you, John.” 

•

The blush from your recreational activities was just starting to fade, but resurfaces within seconds, John finding his solace by hiding his teary eyes and blushing face in the crook of your neck. 

You aren’t sure what he’s saying - it’s lost in the fabric of your shirt, the whisper of his voice, the wrecked words that are mouthed against your collar.

But you catch bits of it.

“— you too… So much… Please…” 

You smile softly, . 

He crumbles against you, the arms coiled around your shoulders tightening, trying to fuse the two of you together, all but daring anyone - anything - to rip you apart.

“Don’t leave. D-don’t—“

You lay a delicate, adoring kiss to his temple, feel the tension dissolve from his muscles, hide your smile in his mussed hair as a shaky inhale cracks his lips apart, as you card your fingers through his sweaty locks, as you hum against his skull.

“I’m not going anywhere, Baby Blue.”


	3. "I’ll do whatever it takes if it means we’ll be together forever, darling." (John)

“I swear, you go out of your way to get injured,” John’s voice is annoyed, but there’s also something vulnerable underneath it, like he’d been worried sick.

“It’s not that bad,” you grouse, raising your arm and flexing the bandaged limb, bending your fingers, almost as if to say, ‘This is ridiculously unnecessary.’

“You have three broken ribs, a fractured radius and sustained a head wound so brutal that they don’t know how you aren’t… how you didn’t…”

His voice trails off, quiet and cracked, the insinuation behind the words he couldn’t say enough to make him tremble.

“Hey. I’m okay, right? I’m here.”

John inhales, shaky and unsure, but when you reach out and take his hand, place it over your throat so his thumb rests against your pulse, his breath stalls altogether.

He’s quiet for a minute, and you think that it’s worked, that your steady pulse is calming down his erratic one, but the pensive look across his face turns into something darker, predatory.

“You’re here now. But what about the next time you leave? What happens the next time you get injured? What if you’re hurt worse? What if…”

You open your mouth to intervene, to refute that statement, to cut off his train of thought because this was a one-time thing, I’ve been training Jacob’s soldiers for weeks, I didn’t expect them to catch-on this fast, nor did I know that Jacob was training them in-secret when I’d left, this was just a momentary lapse of judgment and you know it—

But he cuts you off before a syllable forms in your mouth.

“No… No, I won’t let that happen. There’s no reason for you to leave this ranch. You won’t leave this ranch. I’ll cuff you to the bed if I have to.”

You can’t help the snort that escapes you at his threat, even if he levels a sharp glare at you, something that warns that he isn’t joking.

You know he isn’t, because he’s done so before - many times, actually - but you’ve either A.) tossed yourself down a flight of stairs to break free of the bonds cuffing you the chair, B.) have had years of experience about breaking out of bad situations such as those that you were able to lock-pick the cuffs with the inordinate amount of bobby pins stashed on your person at any given time or C) broke your thumb, wrenched your hand out of the cuff and simply walked out like nobody’s business, resetting the digit as easily as if you were doing little more than brushing the dirt off your shoulders. 

So, yes - the threat has weight, and you’re sure that John has realized that cuffs will not (have never actually) done the job, that he’ll have to get more creative with your restraints, but you find the situation too funny not to laugh.

“Really, sweetheart? That’s how you plan to keep me around? Chained to the bed? I mean, I can think of plenty worse ways to be held prisoner, but—“

“I’ll do whatever it takes if it means we’ll be together forever, darling.”

The intensity is what renders you silent, how his jaw is clenched so tightly he’s going to crack a joint, how his eyes become a stormy blue, like the sea churning dangerously in the midst of a storm, promising nothing but destruction and carnage, how his voice delves low, the dark timber sending shivers down your spine — but you try to brush it off as nonchalantly as you can.

“Yeah, okay. Why not? I hear Stockholm Syndrome is in season these days.”

John shakes his head, staring down at the sheets.

You thought that a smile was threatening to curl up one side of his mouth, in that way it does when he’s trying to hide it but fails miserably, but you couldn’t be further from the truth.

You’ve never seen a frown so taut with worry, sadness, fear.

“… Why do you do this? Why do you willingly seek out these fights? What is this training supposed to accomplish?” The question is quiet, eerily calm but icy, so unlike his customary boiling rage that it unnerves you deeply.

You would’ve preferred it if he’d screamed at you.

Because smoldering a flame was much easier than thawing ice.

But you’d learned to adapt, you’ve been doing so for years, so you’re able to take this frigid line-of-questioning in-stride.

By telling the truth.

With your fingers around his hand, which hasn’t left your throat, you squeeze lightly.

“… I need to protect the person I love.”

You find it difficult to hold his gaze when those impossibly blue eyes are staring so incredulously at you, as if you’d sprouted two heads and started speaking in tongues, but he needs to know.

He needs to know that someone cares about him, that you care about him, that you won’t let anything happen to him.

You’ve only said those words to one person in your lifetime - three little words that meant everything to someone if you’re being sincere, and you are. But those three little words got caught in your throat at the last second, get botched and scrambled into something that is and isn’t what you wanted to say, not because you don’t mean them but it’d take a bit of practice to get used to them rolling off your tongue.

Given the way a flush takes to his cheeks, stains the tips of his ears pink, his eyes darting off to the side, you think the point got across.

Damn, he’s cute when he’s flustered.

Eventually, the blush fades, and this particular look falls across his face, one that you haven’t seen in years, one that had only been directed at you by one other person, and seeing as how that person isn’t around anymore…

You swallow, squeeze his wrist one last time, and look up at the ceiling.

That’s why you did this.

That’s why, any minute you weren’t trying to ease tension between Eden’s Gate and The Resistance, you were training.

You weren’t going to lose the one person you cared about again. You hadn’t been strong enough the last time. You wouldn’t be blindsided this time.

Well, by anyone who wasn’t this bastard you cared about way too much to be considered remotely healthy or sane.

Because John takes you completely off guard, dips his face to meet your eyes, impossibly close, until you’re sharing the same air, sapphires peering into you with an intensity that freezes you in place.

“John?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just studies your face like a priest would scripture — scrutinizing, memorizing, deciphering.

“Difficult to protect them if you leave them all alone, don’t you think?”

“I…”

The next course of action, according to John, is for him to tuck himself against your (uninjured) side, head dropping to your shoulder like he hasn’t slept in days (those dark rings under his eyes bolster this assumption), arms linking around your waist and melt into you.

You wouldn’t be surprised if John could feel the heat seeping through your clothes, his face buried in the blush that’s crawling up your neck (karma’s a bitch), or if he could feel how fast and hard your heart was thrashing against your ribs, threatening to burst out of its cage.

God, when did you turn into such a sap?

“J-John? What are you—“

“I hate it when you leave me.”

His voice might be muffled, but the acid in it is impossible to ignore, as if it’s leaking into your pores and burning you from the inside-out, his teeth ghosting over your jugular.

“I… I’m sorry.”

Two words, quiet but sincere, and just like that, he deflates, the hot air leaving him in a shaky exhale, tight fingers bunching up in your shirt, lips against your collarbone, the ink he carved into you just weeks before, but the touch is so tender that it makes your chest lurch.

“… I miss you when you leave me.”

You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, a whisper that makes you think of the little boy who was abused mercilessly, who hadn’t know anything but pain and suffering for years, who hadn’t been loved since his family was torn apart.

Your arm curls tightly, protectively, around his waist. 

“I miss you too, baby…”

“Don’t…”

He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself, like it’s taking every ounce of his strength not to tear apart at the seams.

You rub soothing circles against his back, wanting to ease the tension rising within him.

“Don’t what, sweetheart?”

“… I want you to promise me.“

You tense beneath him — don’t mean to — but you’ve been in this scenario, you’ve been in this exact same position, only the person who’d asked you had done so through a note, couldn’t do so himself, because he’d known that if he asked you in person, you would never have said yes —

He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, and the desperation in his eyes would’ve been enough to bring the coldest people to their knees, do anything to soothe him, do anything to make that pain go away, do anything to see him smile.

“Come back to me. Always.”

Your arm tightens around him, and you bask in the shuddering sigh that leaves him when you take one of his hands, turn your head and kiss his palm lovingly.

“Always.”


	4. "I've been thinking about this all day." + "You look so good like this, baby." + "God, you have no idea how amazing you are, do you?" (John/Rook)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which The Spread Eagle hosts a karaoke night, John hears you sing for the first time and thinks that you have the grounds to arrest yourself because your performance has to be illegal in at least 38 different countries.
> 
> OR.
> 
> You sing ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails and John loses his shit.

‘You let me violate you

You let me desecrate you

You let me penetrate you

You let me complicate you’

His mouth is dry. He tries to swallow, but finds it difficult to do with the lump in his throat.

He doesn’t know what it is - something that makes his breathing rough, that makes his head spin, that makes his vision blur.

When he looks back at this moment, he’d realize that it was pure, unadulterated lust - which has melted from his throat, metastasized to a burning longing in his chest - that’s causing this, as well as the words that you’re practically moaning into the microphone, that are coming out of the speakers, that are making his bones hum and his blood sing.

‘(Help me)

I broke apart my insides

(Help me)

I've got no soul to sell

(Help me)

The only thing that works for me

Help me get away from myself’

The crowd in The Spread Eagle is a sea of screaming and singing and raging hormones — too enraptured by your performance to notice his arrival — that aren’t helping because he’s trying to dampen the illicit feelings that you’re stirring inside him, but it’s really fucking impossible with you singing like that.

The few semblances of logic and rationality that he has fly out the fucking window as you do the unthinkable - you begin to grind against the microphone stand.

‘I want to fuck you like an animal

I want to feel you from the inside

I want to fuck you like an animal

My whole existence is flawed

You get me closer to god’

That burning longing in his chest ignites, liquid lava, pooling into his stomach, makes his loins catch fire and his dick throb in his jeans.

Fuck.

‘You can have my isolation

You can have the hate that it brings

You can have my absence of faith

You can have my everything’

John is lost in sensation. From the slick glide of intoxicated bodies across the hardwood floor, to your erotic, orgasmic voice, to the music that he becomes convinced is in sync with his pulse, hammering loud in his ears, threatening to deafen him but it can't.

He needs to hear more.

He needs to hear you.

‘(Help me)

Tear down my reason

(Help me)

It's your sex I can smell

(Help me)

You make me perfect

Help me become somebody else’

Somehow, through the ocean of drenched bodies, hazy smoke and deafening bass, you find him.

Your eyes catch for the flicker of an instant. He waits for your eyes to widen, for your jaw to drop, for your muscles to go rigid.

To his astonishment, you do nothing of the sort.

No, your eyes focus on him - only him - as the next lyrics flow from your lips.

‘I want to fuck you like an animal

I want to feel you from the inside

I want to fuck you like an animal

My whole existence is flawed

You get me closer to god’

Without breaking eye contact, your tongue drags up, slow - agonizingly slow - along the microphone, amber eyes searing into blue, peering into his fucking soul.

John stops breathing.

‘Through every forest above the trees

Within my stomach, scraped off my knees

I drink the honey inside your hive

You are the reason I stay alive’

•

John snatches you when you’re leaving the bar from the back.

Grabs the lapels of your jacket, shoves you against the wall, looms over you like predator would with its prey caged in its claws.

You don’t so much as twitch.

Like you’d been expecting this.

'You filthy sinner.’ John seethes.

You cock your head, playing coy.

‘Good evening to you too, Pretty Boy. Didn’t know you were in the area… Were you watching?’

John snarls. 'You know... You fucking know I was watching.'

That winsome, mischievous, tantalizing smirk curls up one corner of your mouth, promising nothing but trouble.

John has never so badly wanted to be in danger.

“Weren’t too sure you’d make it for the performance. Luckily for me, you have this knack of showing up at just the right second… What’d you think?”

He takes a deep breath, tries to compose himself, to rein in the sinful thoughts barraging him. 

“Darling, you're playing with fire.”

He thinks that the warning has done its job, will make you realize what a terrible mistake you’re trying to make, but then you lean in close and say three little words against his lips…

’Sweetheart, let me burn.'

That does it.

Whatever scarce remnants of self-restraint that had lingered after that performance dissipated in that instant.

He crushes your mouths together, hard enough that his teeth scrape your lip and the taste of iron floods your tongues, but you just moan appreciatively and give as good as you get.

That was your cue.

Because then you’re switching positions, using his hold against him, your fingers digging into the collar of his way-too-fucking-expensive button-down, turning him around and pushing him up against the wall.

He’s about to fight back, to regain his leverage, but then he’s choking back a strangled groan as you slide a thigh between his legs, grinding against his cock, a crackled hiss leaving your mouth.

‘Watch it, sweetheart,’ you warn, before you’re surging forward, lips latching to the delicate column of his throat, leaving bite-marks that would last for days.

Sweat - salty, tangy - graces your palate, but there's something earthy in it, too. 

Something that's natural and bittersweet and so incredibly John that you have to refrain from lapping his taste up like a dog.

He can't stop the moans leaving his throat, tries to muffle them by biting the inside of his cheek, but this just proves to be fuel for you, because you don’t want him to be quiet, you want him to scream.

You decide the best way to make him do so is to sink your teeth into the juncture of his throat and shoulder, hard enough to pierce the skin, blood rising to the surface, greeting your tongue like a long-lost lover.

What a sound it brings.

The cry that rings out through the night, echoes in your very being is beautiful and devastating and so fucking perfect.

‘God, the sounds you make, John. Thought I wanted everyone to hear ‘em, but they don’t deserve ‘em. Wanna keep you all to myself…”

You’re expecting a snide comment about greed or lust, definitely about confessing or baptizing, but what you get instead is a breathless, sincere response.

‘Do it. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

His voice is deep, low, quiet — but it might as well have been shouted from the ends of the Earth, from how it makes you feel.

Hot and vivid and alive.

He closes the distance between you, seals your lips together, makes it an oath, a promise, a vow — you and him until the Collapse and beyond.

This kiss isn't as violent as before.

Desperate, yes - but that can’t be helped.

John’s just had his first taste of ambrosia, and now that he has, his thirst will never be quenched.

Your mouth is soft, pliant beneath his - content to let him take the lead - opening up when his tongue traces the seam of your lips, goading the wet muscle with yours.

But when his hands leave your jacket to try and fumble with the button of your jeans, you snatch his wrists and pin them above his head.

“Just a second, Baby Blue. I serenaded you. Think it’s time for you to sing for me, don’t you?”

He whines, a needy and desperate sound that gives you a grin that’d make the Cheshire Cat fume with jealousy.

’Darling. Please. I need to touch you,’ he pleads, with bruised lips and shimmering eyes, and if this isn't the definition of gorgeous, you don’t know what is.

'There'll be time for that later, baby. Plenty of time for that later.'

His lips part, but when you slip one hand down to unbutton his jeans, tear his zipper down, wrapping a calloused hand around his leaking length, the words die in his throat, lost to a wanton moan.

‘Yes, Rook - yes, yes, yes.’

Holding back a moan of your own at the delicious word falling from his lips - a mantra just for you, a song you’d never tire of hearing, his precious adage spilling out of his mouth like a hymnal - you slowly begin to pump him, smiling fiendishly as he gasps, as his fingers flexing uselessly above him, his hands craving the feel of your skin, his arms struggling against the iron-grip you have around his wrists. 

He isn’t sure if the fact that you’re strong enough to pin his wrists above his head with a single hand oughta to be as arousing at it is, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hard as a fucking diamond.

“Yes to what, Pretty Boy? Use that sinful little mouth of yours.'

He goes quiet for a moment, but when you tighten your grip, flick your wrist, a dam bursts within him.

'Fuck! I need you, Rook! Please. Need more. Need to feel you. Need—‘

You cut him off, kiss him roughly, releasing his wrists to wrap your hand around his neck, your thumb tilting his head just so that your mouths slot together like jigsaw pieces falling into place, exact and perfect.

He doesn’t waste a second with his freedom - hands bunching in the back of your jacket, tugging you impossibly closer, not wanting so much as an inch of space between you two.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day… God, I wish you could see yourself right now… You look so good like this, baby,” you sigh against his lips, smiling as he whines against yours.

Nimble fingers unbutton his shirt, reveal the pale, tattooed, scarred skin underneath, run across the flat planes of his chest, nails lightly biting at the dips.

He moans brokenly when your fingers ease around him, stroking him lazily, taking him firmly at the base, loosening as you move up, flicking your wrist in a way that has him keening.

His head clunks back against the wall, which would’ve hurt, but he’s seeing stars for a completely different reason, the pleasure he felt in that moment erasing anything else.

“Rook, I’m going to— I’m—“

'Let go for me, John.’

He does.

With a strangled cry, he comes undone beneath you, a lanky mass of limbs that's only standing because he's sandwiched between a wall and perfection.

His head falls to your shoulder, burying his face in your throat, moans quietly as you kiss the bared expanse of his neck.

“God, you have no idea how amazing you are, do you?” You murmur against the red and purple marks you’d left earlier, kissing them for good measure, something beastly inside you growling in delight at the visceral claim you’ve staked, salivating at the thought of leaving these bites again and again and a g a i n .

You can taste the blush edging up from his collar to paint his neck and flush his cheeks, smile against the heated skin, filing away the praise kink for later because that is something you’ll be exploring in thorough detail.

He doesn't think he can handle much more, that there's much left in him, but heat coils - hot and heavy - in his stomach when you bring your hand to your mouth and slowly, obscenely, lick your fingers clean.

Without breaking eye-contact.

He surges forward, crushes your lips together, tastes himself on your tongue, moans lewdly.

‘The best gift isn’t the one you get - it’s the one you give.’

You know that he’s eager to return the favor, if his roaming hands and dark eyes are any indication, but you aren’t finished.

You’d extended the olive branch, but you weren’t ready for him to reach back quite yet. 

You sink to your knees, his hands tangling loosely in your hair, your lips trailing a searing path down the bare, marred, beautiful skin of his stomach to his wrecked jeans, wrinkled boxers, your fingers easing them down, ghosting across his dick - leaking, throbbing, hardening. 

You can feel him tense above you, oversensitive but desperate for anything you’re willing to give him. 

You’d give him the world, the moon, the stars if he asked. 

But that sappy, romantic shit wasn’t the proper etiquette in this situation, so you decide to keep it to yourself for the time-being. 

You’re able to think one last coherent thought before you’re taking him in your mouth - the hot, salty, heady taste of him exploding across your tongue, makes you hum in delight - reveling in the sharp cry it tears from his throat when the head hits the back of your throat, groaning around him as his fingers tighten in your hair to that beautiful blend of pleasure and pain when you trace the vein on the underside with your tongue, reducing him to strangled curses, quiet praise and a heavenly song of ‘Yes, darling, yes,’ when you stroke him at the base, swirl your tongue around the head, lapping at the slit before he’s shuddering, panting, trembling with the warning of his release, but you flatten your palms against his hips, pinning them to the wall, and swallow him down to the root, indulging in the salty, musky seed that spills down your throat, along with the beautiful sob it wrenches out of him. 

’I’m building Sharky a brand-new flamethrower for suggesting karaoke night.’


	5. “I can’t let you go. I won’t let you go. I love you.” + “I’ll carve my name into your back if that’s what it takes to prove you’re mine.” (John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of “I’ll do whatever it takes if it means we’ll be together forever, darling.”

Chained.

Hindsight reprimands you, mocks that you have no right to be surprised when you wake up, your head foggy, your body thrumming, your limbs chained because you’d given him the fucking idea.

“John…” You start, the name slurred and heavy, your voice hoarse and scratchy, like there’s cotton in your mouth and sandpaper scraping your vocal cords.

You try to concentrate, force what little strength you could muster into trying to move your arms, your legs, anything. Even if they you weren’t chained, everything feels so fucking heavy, like your blood’s been replaced with lead, gravity’s been multiplied ten-thousand fold, your bones doing an uncanny impression of dumbbells.

You don’t even feel the sturdy weight draped across you, like an expensive, clingy blanket, before he slowly stirs, blinking awake with the laziness of a cat, reminding you of Peaches when you have to nudge her awake after a nap.

Only, he doesn’t glare at you to leave him alone, hiss to give him five minutes to wake properly.

No, his eyes focus, sleep steadily fading, a small smile sneaks across his face, as he kisses the underside of your jaw.

“Good morning, love.”

“Chains? Really? For fuck’s sake, I was joking, John—“

“I’m well-aware, darling. But your jokes have this tendency of doubling as brilliant ideas,” John purrs, nuzzling into the bare skin of your throat, his hands coming up to roam across your chest and stomach, just as they have hundreds of times before.

You can feel each and every line engraved in his palms, the calloused tips of his fingers, and you realize you aren’t wearing anything but a large, loose, open button-down - the dark blue and expensive material telling you exactly who it belongs to - and the bandages wrapped around your ribs and arm.

Other than that?

Naked as the day you were born.

Well, fuck.

“You know I’m going to get out of these, Baby Blue. I always do.”

“Hm… You might. But not anytime soon. Not with your arm like this.”

Just to enunciate his point, his fingers coil around the bandages adorning your forearm, squeeze once - sharply - pulling a hiss from your mouth.

“No, I think you’ll be here for a while.”

He pecks your cheeks, jaw, lips - like an apology, but with his fingers loosely wrapped around the gauze, those kisses feel more like patronizing warnings than remorseful condolences.

“You seem to forget that, just as I’m yours, you are mine. And you’re injured, darling. What kind of lover would I be to let you leave with wounds as serious as these? No, I have to take care of you. Nurse you back to health. Cater to your every need until you’re fully healed.”

Even though the drug-induced haze — How much Bliss was in your system to override it like this? Jacob said that it takes enough to put down a small infantry just to make you complacent. — you can see the menacing smirk twisting one side of his mouth, before he’s nosing down the line of your neck, leaving harsh, lingering bites along the fleshy column, stopping at your chest and stomach to pay special attention to the myriad of scars criss-crossing the skin that wasn’t bandaged, kissing and licking the puckered tissue, smiling against your skin as you sigh.

However much Bliss he dosed you with has made you hypersensitive - because then you’re writhing beneath him, swallowing thickly as he slips a finger, two fingers, inside your slick heat, the bitter scolding on the tip of your tongue withering to a strangled choke when he introduces a third finger, the three digits buried to the knuckle, pumping in and out at a slow, torturous pace.

You think he plans to keep this up for hours, to bring you to the precipice again and again, neglect you right before the peak, only to bring you back, repeat this process until you’re nothing but a desperate, begging wreck beneath him, but then he’s flicking his wrist, crooking his fingers, hitting that sweet bundle of nerves that has you arching off the bed, into him.

You’re close, you’re close, you’re close— you’re so goddamn close.

You don’t know what you’re saying, if you’re saying anything, there’s a very likely chance it’s nothing but strangled noises and choked curses.

Until he takes his fingers out completely, withdrawing them so quickly that you feel like he’d sucker punched you in the stomach, leaving you breathless and aching.

“B-baby, fuck— don’t do this to me—“

But the whine dies in your throat, a relieved cry taking its place when his cock pushes inside, longer and thicker than his fingers, stretching you deliciously, filling you to the brim.

Your arms might be chained, but apparently, he wasn’t compelled to shackle your legs, seeing as how he lifts them around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer, until you can feel every single inch of him.

Fuck — too much, too much, t o o m u c h .

You can feel everything, like your nerve endings have exfoliated and are soaking up every molecule of him, and it’s so fucking good.

“God, you’re so tight. So fucking perfect, darling. We were made for each other. Can’t you see that? Don’t you feel it?”

You hiss out your agreement, as your legs tighten around his hips, dragging him impossibly deeper, clenching around his cock.

He groans, and you indulge in it, rock your hips and squeeze with all you’ve got, but then he’s flattening his hands against your waist, pinning you to the bed, holding you in place, reminds you that this is his show, that this is his bed, that you are his to please.

With the Bliss running rampant through your veins and the chains pinning your arms above your head, you can‘t do much but struggle beneath his tattooed hands, wanting so badly to reverse your positions, to have him a moaning, wanton mess beneath you, to hear him scream out your name, to feel him fall apart in your arms.

But then his cock is deep inside you, as deep as you can take him, thrusting mercilessly, and his fingers find that bundle that has you thrashing, your arm and ribs screaming in protest at the wicked movements but you don’t care, the pain bleeding into pleasure, black spots dancing along the edges of your vision as your climax is wrenched out of you, as you clench one last time around him, as you cry out, “Fuck, John! Yes, yes, yes!”

He comes seconds after you do, groaning low and deep in his chest, spilling hot and thick inside you.

John collapses atop you, right below your ribs, head cushioned against your stomach, catching his breath.

You’re doing the same — trying to, at least - chest heaving from exertion, heart beating fast against your fractured ribs, deafening in your ears, pounding in your skull.

Just as you think you’re regaining your bearings, long, slender fingers slide in once more, pushing his seed back inside you, not letting a single drop slip out.

You writhe, oversensitive, cursing, but he simply chuckles, peppering loving kisses to your taped ribs with a delicacy that contrasts his earlier behavior so intensely that you’re dizzy with whiplash.

“Pretty Boy, as… delicious… as this was… Think you can… unchain me now?”

Abruptly, he stops his ministrations.

Dread pools in your stomach, because as much as you hate to admit it, in your condition, chained up like this, you are completely at his mercy and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

But then… Then he’s laughing. That sharp, manic, dangerous thing that you hadn’t heard in weeks, that crackles like electricity, that you thought you’d never hear again because you’d made it your goal to ensure that his laughter was hearty, authentic, happy.

Looks like you didn’t do a good enough job.

He starts up again, kissing up your stomach, your sternum, tracing the hard lines of the sins tattooed into your collarbones - wrath on the left, pride on the right - until he’s looming over you, inches away from your face, so close that his breath spills across your cheeks, that you can taste the insanity leaking out of his pores, that you can‘t look away from the deranged depths of blue peering into you, looking right through you, like he wanted nothing more than to flay your soul open to spill across his sheets.

“Darling, don’t you see? I can’t let you go. I won’t let you go. I love you. Your place is here, with me. I can’t have you running off, playing hero for those heathens. Selfless, noble, idiotic knights like you have this knack of dying valiantly in battle. And I’d sooner slit my throat than let that happen.”

Warning.

Danger.

Evacuate immediately.

“John, they’ll come looking for me.”

It isn’t a threat or a warning - just a simple fact. Your friends know that you tend to go loner occasionally, but never longer than a few days. By the end of the week, they’d be rounding-up and sending-in the calvary for you.

A twisted grin mangles his lips into something that chills you to the marrow.

“Let them come. They can try to take you. You can try to leave. But I’ll bring you back. Every. Single. Time. Until you, them, this whole fucking county knows that you are mine. I’ll carve my name into your back if that’s what it takes to prove you’re mine.”

You hiss sharply when pain flares in your side, sharp and blinding, his fingers digging right into at least two broken ribs, too precise to be an accident.

He hums in consideration at your reaction, digits inching just a bit deeper into the gauze.

But then he’s jabbing them too deep, to the point where they slide between the gaps in your ribs, twisting them sharply, scraping the fractures to the point where you cry out, thrashing in agony, your wrists torn and mangled from the unyielding restraints.

Faster than you can register, he rises up to kiss you, steals the noise out of your mouth, takes it into his with a disconcerting amount of enthusiasm, like he’ll stop at nothing to evoke that sound out of you again and again and again, moaning at the flavor, like it’s the greatest thing to grace his taste buds.

“These will heal, darling. Rest assured. Though, we might have to break them a few more times… The last thing we want is for them to heal the wrong way, hm? Don’t worry… I’ll be taking exquisite care of you. Believe me, love - by the time your bones heal — days, weeks, months from now — we won’t need these chains. I will make you see that your place is here, with me, until the Collapse and beyond.”

…

Fuck.

You and your big fucking mouth.


	6. "You make a sound and it’s game over." + "I think they might be a problem. Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of them." (Joseph)

They’re in church, for heaven’s sake.

His church, to make matters worse.

The sermon wasn’t supposed to begin for another hour, but apparently, a few of his followers had decided to arrive earlier than expected.

“Thought you had your flock under better control, Pops.”

He opens his mouth to argue, that they aren’t mindless sheep, that people couldn’t always wait, they might’ve had problems that needed immediate help, that needed their Father’s guidance.

But you shut him up with a firm kiss, the moan simmering in his chest smoldering to a silent hum as your fingers coil around his throat, not tight enough to cut off air but just enough for him to know that it’s a warning.  
Don’t make a sound.

•

He’d been here since early this morning, a habit that would die hard — Sunday mass had always been sacred, so he’d often find himself in the church hours before the echo of wheels down the dirt-path reverberated through the valley — but today had been a change of pace.

Because you’d stormed in, splattered with so much gore and viscera that he was petrified it was yours, until you’d shoved him down behind his podium, straddled his waist and kissed the breath out of him.

The rational part of him was screaming at him, at you, at both of you to stop this immediately - this was no place for such carnal pleasures.

But the human part of him, which you had a tendency of bringing out, much to his chagrin and delight, was hooking his fingers in your belt loops, tugging you so close that he could feel your heartbeat pounding against his ribs, whether it be from the massacre you’d just committed or the activities you were currently taking part in was up for debate.

“Beloved, what—“

“Shut up,” you snarl, biting his lips, drawing blood, greedily licking the metallic substance from the raw skin and moaning at the taste.

“Are— are you all right?” He asks, gasps out, even though you’ve just split his lip and it’ll be difficult to explain to his congregation when he didn’t have said injury the night before.

“No. No, I most certainly am not all right. Fuck you and your fucking cult,” you hiss into the column of his throat, sucking and biting at the vulnerable flesh, laving special attention over his jugular, that both of you know you could rip out with your teeth right now.

But you wouldn’t.

Because in all the time that’s passed, you never had.

And you never will.

Doesn’t mean you can’t leave behind a few mementos.

By the time you’re done, his neck and shoulders are littered with shades of red and purple, with teeth-marks that’d give Jacob’s judges a run for their money, a few of them leaking drops of blood, and he’s a panting, shivering mess.

God, but he does look good like this.

“U-use me, then. Unleash your wrath — let it take physical form and purge it from your being. Make me your martyr so that you may be free of this rage.”

“For fuck’s sake, Joseph - can’t you just shut the fuck up for one—“

That’s when the whispers permeate your space.

The doors aren’t locked, his children won’t enter until they’re opened by him or his siblings.

But, in time, they will wonder where their father is.

Your eyes flicker from the doors to his face, the ice in your glare enough to rattle his spine.

“You make a sound and it’s game over.”

•

That just about explains how he’d ended up in this position — behind his podium, splayed across the floor, the savior of Hope County pinning him down, your hand down his pants, fingers coiled around the throbbing, leaking length of his cock, tracing the tattoos and scars adorning his torso with sharp teeth, soothing them with a skilled tongue.

It’s been less than fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity to Joseph, because you’ve brought him to the edge three times within that timeframe, stopping just before he could find his release, leaving him a sobbing, trembling, pleading mess.

Which you wanted to appreciate in full - what with those blood-stained, plump lips begging for release, the thin sheen of sweat that makes him glisten in the candlelight, the soul-wrenching blue eyes that are heavy with lust, want and a third emotion that you don’t want to find a name for because it’s too intimate and you did not sign up for that shit.

But it was difficult to absorb such a gorgeous sight with the tenacious cultists wandering around outside, chattering, waiting for their Father, wondering if they could go inside to check for him.

The joints in your jaw crack, your patience wearing dangerously thin.

“I think they might be a problem. Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of them.”

“No!” Joseph cries, snatching the lapels of your jacket in his trembling fingers.

You glance down at him, unamused and irritated.

“I… Just, please… Don’t kill them.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug out of his grasp and push yourself to your feet.

“What kind of twisted fuck do you take me for?”

•

Taking down fifteen people — without killing or hurting them or raising alarm — wasn’t as easy at it sounded.

Specifically, because you couldn’t kill them. But they weren’t dangerous. They just put their faith in a dangerous man who was frustratingly good at getting inside their heads and twisting them to do his bidding.

You sigh, brushing the dirt off your jacket. Do you even want to go back inside? Putting fifteen cultists in a chokehold without being seen had given you a rush of adrenaline, but it was wearing off rather quickly.

Maybe 29 is the prime of your life and you’re starting the inevitable decline. Is this your mid-life crisis? Does this mean you can buy a Porsche on a whim and it’s totally validated?

With a sigh under your tongue and a cigarette between your lips, you navigate your way around the gaggle of bodies - limp, but very much alive, not so much as a drop of blood on a single one of them - and amble to your car.  
Joseph could blame the assortment of cultists on his front lawn on an experimental strain of bliss they’d been working on since Faith’s fields had been burnt to ashes, that it must’ve leaked out of the barrels they had stashed behind the church, that he’d had them destroyed as soon as he realized how potent they were.

Something along those lines.

God, why the fuck do you care? These people aren’t your responsibility and that psychotic son of a bitch inside the church wasn’t your concern.

Yet…

Something thrums in the back of your skull, like a hummingbird that‘s singing an annoying, persistent, damning melody, pestering you to at least inform him about the (very much alive) bodies strewn around his church.

Cursing yourself internally in each and every one of the twelve languages you know, you take one last deep drag from your cigarette, right until the filter threatens to burn your fingertips, basking in the nicotine that drenches your taste buds, the smoke that fills your lungs to the brim, the carcinogens soaking into, poisoning, the tissue, making you sigh contentedly.

You’re about to flick the cigarette off to the side, but then you remember their policy about alcohol, drugs, nicotine.

With a scowl that would’ve given Jacob a run for his money, you put out the smoldering cherry against your boot and cram the cigarette butt back into the pack to toss out later.

“You… You really didn’t kill them.”

You jump about three inches off the ground when you hear his voice behind you, from the steps of the church.

How long had he been standing there?

“Of course I didn’t. I don’t kill anyone who doesn’t pose a threat. How many times do I have to say it before it’ll stick in your thick skull?”

Joseph goes quiet, a godsend (unintended pun) and rarity because he can never shut his mouth, but you aren’t able to revel in it when he’s studying you like you’re an enigma wrapped in a Rubik’s cube, and there isn’t anything he loves more than solving puzzles.

You really aren’t in the mood for this, regardless of the crimson creeping up your neck, clear your throat to diffuse attention.

“Tell your flock that an experimental strain of Bliss was released and it knocked ‘em out, yeah? They don’t have any bruises or cuts, but their throats will be sore. Chokehold tends to do that.”

Joseph doesn’t say anything for a long time — long enough that you begin to get uncomfortable, unsure of what to do or say, unable to look into those hypnotic blue eyes that you’re positive could have you do his bidding, just as he’s done to dozens, hundreds, thousands of others.

You don’t do well with silences. You never have. This is as perfect an exit cue as any.

“Well, I’m out of here. Don’t feel like dealing with more of your children meandering around the church for their precious Father—“

Joseph is skinny — lean, your mind supplies faintly, because there is a bit of muscle underneath that wiry frame — but he isn’t helium.

Except, he must be.

Because he’s across the landing, tugging at your arm, whirling you around to face him so quickly, so quietly that you almost dissolve into cardiac arrest.

 

Your instincts have you tensing, ready to clock him in the jaw, but then his fingers are tilting your head up and he’s kissing you - soft, delicate, tender - so unlike what’d transpired less than ten minutes ago that you get a sharp bout of whiplash, but his hands frame your face and keep you grounded.

“… What was that for?” You ask quietly, licking your bottom lip absentmindedly.

“For showing mercy when you easily could’ve wrought destruction.”

“Yeah… Well… Whatever,” you mumble, flustered by the lack of space between you, by that look in his eyes that he’d given you earlier in the church, by the raw emotion he’s so blatantly exposing that your chest tightens.

You didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of something so sincere, intimate, longing.

“Will I see you tonight?”

You scoff. “I’m not one for sermons, Pops. You know that.”

“As much as I’d love for you to be amongst our flock in the church, I was actually hoping you’d join me at my home.”

Had you been walking, you would’ve tripped over your feet and your face would’ve become well-acquainted with the ground.

“I… You… What?”

“I’d like to show my gratitude. And finish what you started earlier. Without any interruptions or distractions.

He couldn’t be serious. This was a joke, right? He didn’t really expect you to…

“I…“

He’s reaching inside your jacket, which would’ve resulted in a broken wrist for anyone else because A.) personal space (but you’re convinced that Joseph doesn’t know what the fuck that is) and B.) you have a potpourri of weapons stashed in this jacket at any given time, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d either slice his fingers off or you’d both go up in flames.

But he fishes your cellphone out of your pocket, fiddles with it for a few seconds before holding it out to you - needs your passcode - which you type in slowly, because you can’t quite wrap your head around what the fuck is happening.

Joseph uses it with ease, which you bite back a snicker at because, for someone who loathes technology to the point of multiple lectures and broadcasts, he’s using it with the expertise of a true millennial.

“Thought you hated technology,” you muse, as his fingers tap against the screen.

“Hatred does not warrant ignorance,” Joseph hums, unfazed. 

You wonder what he’d look like brandishing a vanilla bean frappuccino from Starbucks, replacing his boots with Uggs, throwing a big, oversized sweatshirt over him - where the sleeves are too long and the hem reaches his thighs - that says ‘Messiah and Manbuns For Life’.

Why is your brain like this?

He slips it back into your pocket, pats your side for good measure, like he’s giving it his final blessing.

“My number and address. I advise using your GPS - tangible road maps tend to be more harmful than helpful.”

“Don’t trust your God to guide me to you?” You snark, defense mechanism kicking into high-gear, refusing to meet his eyes, straightening out your jacket with an exaggerated huff when his fingers tangle in your hair - not hard, not reprimanding, not angry.

Tenderly. Resting his forehead against yours. Peering into you with eyes that are achingly earnest, staggeringly intense, wrenchingly blue, even through the gold-tinted lenses.

“He’s already guided you to me, sweet girl. I told you He wouldn’t let you take me. He won’t let you slip through my fingers, either.”


End file.
